I'd been back a few times since leaving the Sunshine State for the Bluegrass State (Kentucky; for college) some twenty-five years ago. Prior to this trip, I'd been accompanied by my wife and the itenerary included visiting various family members. This time, however, I was on my own in all respects; no spouse, no family visits. It was a business trip.
It wasn't until I was in my rental car trying to figure out the satellite radio that I began to consider the possibilities this solo trip would present me. I could drive to my hometown and see how it had changed since my last visit in 1994. I could try to contact old friends who I thought were still around. (Old girl friends? It was a nice rental car, after all. No...I've lost too much hair and gained too much weight for that.) I could visit old haunts and see what memories stirred to life in the annals of my middle-aged mind. (Sound of needle scratching across vinyl LP.)
All of that flew out the window as I pulled into a distrubingly familiar looking Holiday Day Inn in west Kissimmee (did my family and I stay here in the early 80's?!?!). What did arriving at the motel do to jettison all those tempting treats of the memory? In the single, simple act of getting out of my car, I was assulted by three things I remember hating about Florida:
- The heat. It wasn't as bad as I expected, but it was as if my pores can instant recall. The "feel" of the humidity was tooooo familiar and as unwelcome as the (take your pick) bully cousin, cheek-pinching aunt, or purple-haired grandmother who kept a wad of tissues tucked into her...um...into the V of her V-neck, sleeveless blouse.
- The charcoal gray sand. The color denotes the level of dirt. And this sand looked to be about three shades darker than when I was there thirteen years ago. In fact, I can't remember (and I'm sure only Ponce de Leon and his band could) it ever being tan.
- The dead pine needles. They still litter the landscape, as far as the eye can see. And, to my shock and horror, they are still used by businesses as landscape mulch instead of wood chips or lava rock.
With the trauma of the parking lot firmly established in my head, I checked into the motel. Dean (not his real name) was a great help to me when I got lost earlier on I-4. Much more of a help, it would turn out, than Kareem, the property owner. I swear that polite little man had "profit loss" radar where I was concerned. In four days, it didn't matter which of the four entrances of the place I used, he was always at the one I picked when I had a sack of fast food in my hand. "We have a very high quality restaurant, you know, Sir," he would say. Yes....I thought....and with very high prices, too! But what I said was something like, "Back home in Kentucky, I don't have (insert name of fast food joint: Chick-fil-A, Fazzoli's, Pop Eye's Chicken) ________________, so when I find it, I get it!"
To be fair, he was right: The restaurant was of exceptional quality. I bought some gum at its cashier stand before checking out on Friday morning. ($2.10 plus tax, if your interested.)
